


Am I my brother's keeper?

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 18:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20916290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: There’s another wand on the floor, just out of arm’s reach. It must have been kept in this room, safely locked away until his duel with Voldemort tore it from its hiding place.Voldemort hasn’t noticed it, distracted as he is by the sight of Harry’s pain. With a barely stifled gasp, Harry drags himself forward across the floor.He reaches for the wand.(au where people who have brother wands are soulmates)





	Am I my brother's keeper?

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_One](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_One) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> soulmate au where people who have brother wands are soulmates

“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. It appears your wand will not be found in my shop today.”

Mr. Ollivander’s voice is gentle, but the words cut into him anyway. He feels as if his heart has stopped, like the world is falling out from beneath his feet. This is everything he’s been afraid of since Hagrid broke down the door and dragged him into this new, magical world. He should have known this would happen. 

He should have seen it coming.

“Codswallop,” Hagrid proclaims. Harry flinches away from the sound. “Ollivanders is the only place to find a wand this side of the channel. Where else is ‘e supposed to go?” 

Mr. Ollivander sighs. 

Harry feels as if he might start to cry. He swallows back the lump in his throat, doing his best to keep his breaths even lest he give into the shivery feeling rising in his chest. 

“You saw for yourself, Rubeus,” the old man says. He sounds disappointed. Harry feels a sudden urge to find someplace very small and dark to hide away. “None of my wands were the right fit.”

Hagrid grumbles something Harry doesn’t quite catch. 

Harry gathers the remains of his dying courage. 

“Can I still go to Hogwarts?” he asks, cringing at how small his voice is, how weak. He looks up at Hagrid with watery eyes, and he must look truly pathetic because the large man crouches down and rests a shockingly gentle hand upon his shoulder. “Can I still be a wizard?”

“Of _ course _ yeh can,” Hagrid tells him, voice gruff. He looks over Harry’s head, and while Harry can't bring himself to look and see the expression on his face, it’s enough to make Mr. Ollivander retreat back to his shelves. “I’d like to see them try and stop yeh. Hogwarts is where you’re meant to be.”

Harry lets out a relieved sigh. 

Then he hears Mr. Ollivander coming back.

“Alright, then,” the old man says as he sets a pile of boxes down on the counter, “Let’s try this again.” 

“But, sir,” Harry says. Mr. Ollivander turns to look at him, and Harry shrinks in on himself. “You said it yourself. None of them work for me.”

“Ah, but that is not _ exactly _ what I said,” Mr. Ollivander tells him as he removes the first wand from its box. He holds it out for Harry to try. “It is true that you will not find a perfect fit here today, but a good one? That, we can do.”

And so Harry tries the wands again. Eventually, they settle upon a wand of English oak and dragon heartstring.

“A good choice, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Ollivander tells him. He passes it back to Harry, who accepts it carefully. “This will be a loyal wand, and although you will never achieve the same magic you might if you ever find your chosen, I have no doubt that it will serve you well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says softly as he looks down at the wand. 

It feels warm in his hand, but Mr. Ollivander was right. 

It isn’t meant for him, and they both know it.

“It truly is a pity,” Mr. Ollivander says, sounding as if he’s lost in thought.

“What is?” Harry asks, desperate for any hint the man might give about his true wand. 

“Many years ago, a wand was stolen from my shop. It was a lovely thing, a combination you’re unlikely to find anywhere else.” The old wandmaker sounds wistful. “Holly and phoenix feather. Yes, that’s right.”

He turns his luminous gaze on Harry.

“If that wand was here today, I am certain it would have chosen you.”

“Why?” Harry asks, torn between curiosity and unease. 

Mr. Ollivander’s gaze moves to his forehead, and Harry reaches up to flatten his fringe. 

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the wand stolen that day has a brother, a brother who-”

“Alrigh’,” Hagrid interrupts, “That’s enough of that. Harry doesn’t need to be hearing any of that nonsense today.”

Mr. Ollivander frowns at the giant man. “The lore of brother wands may be obscure, but I assure you, it is not nonsense.”

Hagrid waves his words away with a roll of his eyes. 

Harry wants to hear what the wandmaker has to say, but he also doesn’t want to annoy Hagrid when he still depends on him to get back to the Dursleys, so he stays quiet. He’ll look it up when he gets to Hogwarts, he decides. Mr. Ollivander seems put out, but he accepts their payment anyway and wishes Harry the best of luck with his wand. 

As Harry follows Hagrid out into the alley, he looks back to see Mr. Ollivander watching him, his pale eyes gleaming like twin moons as the door swings shut behind him.

As Mr. Ollivander promised, his wand serves him well, though he has no doubt another would serve him better. 

His practical classwork leans toward the poorer side of average in every class but Defense, where his wand seems to sense his passion, his need, and responds to it with equal fervor. As the years pass, he grows used to the jeers of those who expected better from the Boy-Who-Lived. He befriends Neville Longbottom, who carries his father's wand and understands what it feels like to know the wand in your hand is not your own.

When he looks up brother wands one day, he feels his breath catch and his heart skip a beat. _ Soulmates__,_ the book tells him. _ Soulmates are real. _

His heart pounding like a drum in his chest, he closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. 

He has no time for soulmates.

When he finds himself facing down a hundred dementors, the only thing between his godfather and a fate worse than death, his wand produces nothing but smoke. 

(Later, as he watches himself fall, his magic burns through him and from him and the brightest thing he’s ever seen spills forth, casting a light that makes the foul creatures _ scream.)_

When he stands in the graveyard, Cedric’s body at his feet, there is nothing to stop Voldemort’s deadly spells except his quick feet and his quicker hands. He brings Cedric’s body back because he can’t bear the thought of doing anything else_. _ He saves himself and he bleeds for it, but he’s alive to bleed and that’s all that matters.

He never knows what it’s like to have his wand sing in his hand, but he survives.

He learns.

He _ lives. _

And now he’s going to die.

Somewhere behind him, Hermione is screaming. Whether she screams in rage or fear, he can’t tell, but he doesn’t have time to worry, not with Voldemort himself at his heels. 

Malfoy Manor is overrun with Death Eaters, and Harry thinks his heart must stop when a crowd of them appears before him at the end of the hall. He skids to a halt. When he looks back over his shoulder, he sees Voldemort round the corner behind him, his red eyes burning with hatred and the thrill of the chase. 

That familiar yew wand sparks in the monster’s hand, and Harry doesn’t waste any more time.

He breaks down the nearest door and throws himself inside, just barely dodging a spear of black spell-light. There’s a window set into the far wall, and he races toward it, stumbling to a halt when a ring of ghostly fire rises to block his path. In the exchange of spellfire that follows, nothing in the room escapes unscathed. 

One misfired spell leaves smoldering gouges in the wall.

Another hits a bookshelf, sending a spray of broken wards and shattered wood into the air. 

Chest heaving, Harry does his best to duck away from all but the weakest of Voldemort’s curses, knowing his wand isn’t strong enough to produce a shield that could stop them. After dodging a particularly nasty curse that would have left him little more than a smear of red on the floor, he finally manages to hit Voldemort with a cutting curse. 

For a moment, he thinks he might leave this room alive.

Then Voldemort just barely catches him with a blasting curse, and Harry can’t help but scream when the bones of his left shoulder shatter. The bright pain of it sends him falling to the ground. His wand clatters from his hand and rolls across the floor. When he catches his breath, he looks up to see Voldemort’s eyes trained on his prone form, a look of ugly glee twisted across his face. 

He’s enjoying this, Harry realizes. Of course he is.

As he does his best to breathe through the pain, he looks around for his wand, but he can’t see it. Instead, he sees something else.

There’s another wand on the floor, just out of arm’s reach. It must have been kept in this room, safely locked away until his duel with Voldemort tore it from its hiding place. 

Voldemort hasn’t noticed it, distracted as he is by the sight of Harry’s pain. With a barely stifled gasp, Harry drags himself forward across the floor.

He reaches for the wand. 

Voldemort’s glee turns to realization, then to rage.

As his fingers touch the handle, he feels as if the world drops away, as if his flesh is made of nothing but light. Bright fire burns through him. Red and gold sparks swirl into the air, and phoenix song rings in his ears. 

He hears Voldemort shout the killing curse, as if from very far away. 

As if it has a mind of its own, the wand drags his hand through the air, and he casts the first spell he can think of. 

Red and green spell-light meets in midair, and the wand in his hand begins to vibrate, as if an electric charge is surging through it and up his arm, straight to his heart. Then, between their spells, a new light flares to life, deep gold and shining brighter than the sun. 

When he finally drags his gaze away from the light, he looks up to see Voldemort looking back at him, something like fear breaking across his face. 

Brother wands, Harry realizes. 

Ollivander was right. 

Somehow, Voldemort finds it within himself to break the connection. As the light between them dies, Harry feels as if a part of him dies with it. A part of him he’s never known until now.

_Brother wands,_ he thinks. 

He holds Voldemort’s gaze. The silence that hangs in the room is so loud, he fears he might shake apart under the weight of it. But he can’t bring himself to break it.

Brother wands.

_Soulmates._

Of course, he thinks.

Of _ course. _


End file.
